Masquerade
by Jasmine Faith
Summary: An unhappy Hawke is coerced into attending a masquerade ball, but can the experience be saved by a mysterious stranger watching from the wings?


A/N: Just a little something I wrote last night, after reading a story (possibly on this site) in which Orsino asked if he could accompany Hawke to a ball. I also happened to have that one scene from The Labyrinth floating around in my head, and this is what my brain spawned. I am quickly becoming addicted to Hawke/Orsino, and thought I'd make some sort of contribution to the fairly small, but awesome collection here. Apologies if any of this is unclear, or if it doesn't flow right, or if it just doesn't live up to the standards set by all the other beautiful stories out there. To that end, any and all constructive criticism is appreciated!

To anyone looking for updates for Genesis, I apologize, but it is unlikely to be finished any time soon, though I've gone through several re-writes in the past couple of years, I've not managed to stick with it as I was unclear as to where I was taking it, especially in it's early stages - I always seemed to have tons of ideas for _later_ in the story, rather than what was happening at that point.

Disclaimer: Bioware owns the characters, I just torture them for my own amusement.

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Masquerade

Hawke wonders who had convinced her this would be a good idea, scowling into her wineglass. That's right, she thinks with a sigh; Varric and his stupid silver tongue – with a little imploring from her mother, too.

She sighs, glancing around the room and fighting the urge to fiddle with her dress. At least it is better than the last masquerade she went to; that one had just been fancy dresses with matching, half-hearted masks that didn't really hide anyone's identity at all. This one, while also full of fancy dresses, was full of _themed_ fancy dresses, and very pretty matching half masks that covered all but the mouth, all varied in shape, colour and size. Most had points on either side of the mouth that reached down to just past the wearer's jaw.

Hawke is disguised as a peacock, radiant in blue and green and yellow, and nobody has recognized her thus far, a fact she is thankful for.

The atmosphere is mysterious, and though she's intrigued by it all, it has fallen on the worst day possible, as she's had to run all the way out to the wounded coast to deal with errant apostates. She's tired, and put-out, and Maker, she just wants to sleep at this point – fancy ball and noble obligations be damned.

In the back of her mind, she scolds herself for preventing herself from enjoying such a nice occasion, especially since it isn't likely such a nice, palatable ball will be held for a very long time, if ever again. She promises herself, however, that once she is well and truly soused, and the colours start to blur, then she will dance – and Maker, it will be beautiful, much better than attempting to enjoy a dance while in such a sour mood.

She's halfway through her fourth glass – and very close to being quite happy to join the festivities – when he approaches her. Wordlessly, he holds out a hand, staring into her eyes and captivating her with his beautiful blue ones, and helplessly, as if under some kind of spell, she allows him to take her hand and her wine goblet, setting it down somewhere and then sweeping her into his arms and onto the dance floor.

He seems to be masquerading as a raven, dressed in black with strategic highlights of grey, with big, feathered pauldrons that are enough to make Anders jealous. It certainly isn't the renegade apostate, though, as even though she's seen him change his hair and eye colour on occasion for laughs, this man is far too tall and lean, and there is no way Anders' could be hiding behind such an illusion, not when she's pressed close enough to be able to feel the differences. This man's hair is jet black – she thinks she spies twin feathers tucked above his ears, sweeping backwards with his hair, but she can't quite tell, as the mask obscures a clear view of them, and she can't bear to look away from his captivating eyes for too long.

Hawke finds herself struggling to breathe, and blushes at how silly she is acting. Oh, but he is as intoxicating as any wine, as the room and the dancers within it seemed to blur past as they twirl, a whirl of colour and sound, and it is every bit as beautiful as she thought it'd be.

She isn't sure how long they dance for, but it seems to be an age, clasped against his lean, sinuous body as he leads them confidently through the steps, eyes locked on hers the entire time. The longer she stares into his eyes, the more certain she becomes that she knows him, but right as she feels she is on the cusp of realisation, suddenly, he is gone – leaving her breathless, dizzy and giddy, searching for him among the crowd as she tries not to stumble into any of the other dancers whirling around her. Despite his height, he has managed to slip from view, and she is overtaken by a burning need to find him, to not let him get away before she figures out who he is.

A chill settles over her at the loss of his warmth, as she slowly weaves her way away from the dance floor, politely turning away all offers of another dance – though for the life of her, she is not quite certain what she's saying to them, or if it is at all polite.

She spends a good amount of time mingling, weaving around the outskirts of the room, searching and observing, but after circuiting the ballroom twice, she gives up with a sigh. She is convinced that if the other nobles didn't already think her crazy for her half-baked conversation, they certainly do now, and she is extremely grateful that they do not seem to recognize her.

She still feels a little breathless, though her heart's pounding has long since ceased, and she is warm in an uncomfortable way, and tired of the inane company to be had, and so Hawke decides a solo walk through the gardens is in order. She needs to calm herself and regain her senses, because she's sure she hasn't felt nor acted this way since she was a young, inexperienced little girl in Lothering, attending the local dances in whichever barn was free at the time. She finds the throwback intimidating, _terrifying,_ that one mystery man can make her go to pieces like this with just his gaze.

The cool night air is soothing against her flushed skin, and she feels her head clear, just a little. The garden is quiet and empty – the nobles all busy enjoying the wine and merriment indoors – full of quietly chirping crickets and some rare night birds cooing in the trees. Above, the stars twinkle merrily, sparkling like jewels on the moon's cloak. Hawke smiles at the simple pleasure of being within such beautiful gardens, filled with many colours of flower, trailing a hand across the low wall of a quietly burbling fountain as she passes it. The moon is full and round, and Hawke finds a secluded bench to sit and bask in the silvery glow.

She smiles to herself and tips back her head, closing her eyes; she is at peace with the world for this moment, but when she opens them again, the mysterious stranger is in front of her – just a few paces away, but within reach – and she swears his presence is turning the world on its side. She stands abruptly, breath caught in her throat, unsure whether she is preparing to run or to chase; they stare at each other for a moment, before stepping slowly closer, as if sharing a thought. Her hands go to his shoulders, his to her waist, pulling her tight against him, closer than when they danced together inside.

A thrill runs through her at the feel of hard, sinewy muscle pressed against her once more, so closely that she wonders if they will melt into one, and she finds herself alternating between staring at his lips, and staring into his eyes. She can feel his pulse, thrumming against her breast like a hummingbird, and she feels irrepressible giddiness that she seems to affect him just as he affects her. He raises a hand, slipping it under her mask to her cheek, stroking along the bone, wordlessly asking permission. She nods, a quick bob of the chin that is barely perceptible, but it is all that is needed and suddenly she can't breathe because he's _kissing_ her, mouth slanted against hers carefully through the confines of their masks.

Hawke shudders, pressing closer, and tries not to moan as he deepens the kiss, making love to her with lips, teeth and tongue, though he has no such qualms; letting loose a quiet groan, just a breath of a sound, that sends heat running through her.

She gasps as they separate, and another thrill shoots through her, coiling in her belly as she realises he's breathing hard too, and also not totally unaffected by her. Now that she's sure she knows who he is, she's also sure that he had intended to reveal himself to her at some point – perhaps at the end of the night, if she hadn't managed to figure it out – though he certainly wouldn't have left beforehand.

"Orsino?" It's only half a question, gasped between lungfuls of cool evening air, but she is sure.

He grins, stroking her hair back with one hand and removing his mask with the other. She watches with fascination as grey chases away the black in his hair, his eyes changing from blue back to the familiar mossy green she loves. He carelessly drops the expensive porcelain mask to the floor, where it shatters. "I can't pull the wool over your eyes, can I, lethellan?" He chuckles self-deprecatingly.

Hawke grins. "It was _y__our_ eyes gave that you away." She replies simply, pushing her own mask off to crash against the floor, leaning up for a kiss. He smiles against her mouth, unable to stop himself, and she pulls away with a laugh of her own.

He thinks it sounds beautiful, like the chime of bells, and he swears there are stars sparkling in her eyes. Though he is curious, he doesn't bother asking about her comment – instead, he cups her jaw tenderly and kisses her passionately.

Neither are concerned with the expensive masks lying broken on the pavement, the small gems embedded in hers scattered like some kind of starfall.

"Would you like to dance?" He offers his hand as they part, and they are whisked away by the music of nature, twirling together in the empty garden with a moon the seems to _sing._


End file.
